Flight For Freedom
by darkstar331
Summary: Nobody knows much about the man behind the legend of Garuda. The country he saved knows almost nothing about him. The Emmerian military has no information about him other than the reports of his heroics. His name, his face, and his story are all mysteries. But that's about to change. I'm going to find the idiot who lost all my info and beat his ass.
1. Surprise

This will be just a collection of short scenes I wish were in the game instead of the awkward, clunky cutscenes we actually got. Enjoy.

* * *

When people ask me if I fought in the war, my answer is a nonchalant "Kinda" and a shrug. I follow up with a short blurb about how I was a desk-jokey logistics officer at Vitoze when the war broke out, and that my accounting degree made me more valuable to the war effort as a behind-the-scenes number cruncher than anything else, and that the closest I ever got to a real battle was about ten miles. Of course, this is the biggest lie I have ever told in my life.

I can get away with a story like this because some idiot named Staff Sergeant Valman who worked in the Emmerian Military Personnel Center at Gracemeria Air Force Base decided not to make any back-ups the computers he worked on. So naturally, when a stray Estovakian bomb hit too close to the center, blew out its windows, and set off the fire alarms and automatic sprinklers, the personnel files of about 300 service members were erased forever from Emmerian military history. Among those files was the file of one Major Daniel Gallagher, which happens to be me. Honestly, I don't mind that much. Now that nobody knows the real name behind the monikers "Garuda" or "Talisman," the things I actually did in the war have become something of an urban legend. Personally, I think that's kinda cool.

So what did I really do in the war? I don't mean to sound arrogant or anything, but I pretty much won the whole damn thing by myself. And as much as I like the idea of becoming an urban legend I figure the real story should be written down somewhere, even if it's just this handwritten journal that will ideally sit in my attic for a few decades until it's discovered and published by one of my grandchildren. Anyway, here's how it all happened…

* * *

It was August of 2015 when the Estovakians sacked Gracemeria. Two years earier I was transferred to Gracemeria Air Force Base from San Loma and given a promotion to Major. I was 32 and flew F-16's for nearly eight years, and eventually took over as the commander of the relatively small 28th Fighter Squadron. At the time, I was the youngest commander of a fighter squadron in the Air Force.

Thankfully, I wasn't alone. My girlfriend moved with me to Gracemeria, probably because it was apparent that after five years of dating that a marriage proposal was inevitable. Her name was Anastasia, but she went by Anna. She was Estovakian by birth, but moved to Emmeria as a teenager after the Ulysses asteroid levelled half the country. She kept a hint of an accent though, which is one of the things that made me fall for her. I'm a sucker for women with accents.

The morning of the invasion, I woke up to the warm Gracemerian sun streaming through my bedroom window and illuminating the peaceful, angelic face of the woman sleeping next to me. Though we hadn't been there long, we both loved the city. The house, the neighborhood, the sunrises, the gorgeous brunette in my bed… Everything seemed perfect.

Anna stirred a little bit and let out a contented sigh in response to my subtle movements, but didn't open her eyes. She would always do that once or twice before actually waking up, and that morning I had something pretty special for her to wake up to. Slowly and carefully, so as not to disturb Anna's slumber, I rolled over to face the bedside table and opened a drawer, where I stashed the engagement ring I spent hours picking out the previous week, and even longer deciding how to give it to her. After mulling over the fancy plans and grand productions that filled my Facebook feed for the past ten years, I decided on a simple delivery. Anna was a woman of simple tastes, and wasn't a fan of the big complicated proposals that her friends bragged about. It was another one of the reasons I was so head over heels for her.

A mere fraction of second before my fingers made contact with the felt box, my work phone that was sitting right on top of the bedside table started blowing up, ringing, vibrating, and brutally murdering the moment. I inwardly groaned and closed the drawer before grabbing the phone and silencing it, then checked see what was so important that it had to disturb not only my day off, but perhaps the most important moment of my personal life.

Anna woke right up after the clatter and sat up in the bed, her expression saying everything I was thinking before wrapping an arm around my waist and kissing my cheek from behind. "Never a dull moment, right Danny?" She asked sleepily.

"No, but a peaceful one every now and then would be nice…" I grumbled.

When I opened the classified military messaging system, I fully expected it to be a notification that someone in my squadron needed to be bailed out of jail or something similar. But it wasn't. It was a simple two-word message from the base commander, Colonel Buchannan: EMERGENCY RECALL. I immediately jumped out of bed and grabbed my green flight suit, hastily and clumsily putting it on. Emergency recalls meant that my entire squadron and I needed to be at the base ready to fly, and we needed to be there five minutes ago.

"A recall? On your day off?" Anna asked and chuckled at the way I was hopping on one foot while trying to get the other into my flight suit. "Isn't there some kind of rule or regulation against that?" The subtle way she rolled her R's made my heart flutter and made me curse whatever was ruining the moment even more.

"It's probably a random exercise or surprise inspection," I said as I pulled my boots on.

No sooner had I finished the sentence than deafening roar of jet engines suddenly rattled the entire house. It was common for us to hear jets since we lived next to an air force base, but this jet was flying low and nearly supersonic. I knew that any pilot would be court-martialed and discharged for doing that over a residential area. I looked out the window and when I saw the plane responsible for the ruckus, I frowned as confusion and dread washed over me.

"That was an old F-4 Phantom… Emmeria doesn't use those jets anymore." I said mostly to myself but loud enough for Anna to clearly hear the worry in voice. She stood up and wrapped a sheet around her body, then came up behind me and touched my arm.

"What does that mean?" She asked timidly.

"After we decommissioned the planes thirty years ago, we sold them all to…" I paused, slowly piecing together what it all meant.

"…Estovakia." Anna finished my thought.

As soon as she said that, we heard the first explosion.

Immediately I turned around and looked straight into her vibrant green eyes. "I have to go," I said. "I love you." I kissed her briefly yet passionately, and hurried out the door.


	2. Retreat

The distance between Gracemeria and Khesed Island is about three thousand miles. For a normal airliner, that's about a five-hour trip one way. Fighters cruise about 100 miles an hour faster than airliners, so the small force that managed to escape the battle made it to Vitoze in just over four hours. It was the longest and quietest four hours any of us had ever experienced. In the span of less than an hour, we went from being proud defenders of our nation's capital to a ragtag band of survivors running away with our tails between our legs, and even ignoring the fact that we had our asses handed to us so handily, we all left family in the city that was just bombed and occupied by a foreign, hostile invasion force.

While it didn't look like Estovakia specifically targeted civilians while bombing the city's infrastructure, transportation hubs, and communication networks, they certainly didn't give collateral damage a second thought. And with the state of the Emmerian government, getting any kind of list of people killed or missing or even a reasonably accurate death toll would be impossible. All travel and communication to or from the city was completely cut off. In short, none of us that got out of Gracemeria alive would know if our families were even alive until we could take our city back… If we ever took our city back. The worst part was that the brief goodbye I was able to give Anna that morning probably made me the luckiest pilot Emmeria had.

Not a word was spoken over the radio during the flight to Khesed, save whatever calls were absolutely necessary to keep the dozen or so planes of the group from crashing into each other or getting separated. Our destination was an airfield just outside the town of Vitoze. It wasn't even a real air force base, just a regional airport that hosted a small Air National Guard F-15E squadron. Now it was hosting the entire Emmerian Air Force, which consisted of one AWACS plane, a little over a dozen fighters, and whatever the National Guard squadron could come up with.

The Gracemeria survivors scattered about the flight line and their planes crowded into whatever space could be cleared was a sorry sight indeed. To make matters worse, as I climbed out of the cockpit of my own jet I noticed that, as a Major, I was the highest-ranking officer present. The commander of the 15th squadron was one of the pilots on alert status that morning, and was dead before most of us were even in the air. The acting commander, Dan Pollini, was a First Lieutenant that probably still had more time in a simulator than an actual plane. The few Navy pilots that escaped were all Second Lieutenants and looked like they were all fresh out of flight school. A guy named Freddie Durand was the acting commander because his last name came first in alphabetical order.

Then there was Marcus Lampert, callsign "Shamrock." He and I were the only ones from the 28th to make it out. Before now he and I never interacted very much, probably because before I was reassigned to Gracemeria he was on track to be the squadron commander of the 28th but instead got a second term as flight lead.

I looked around at all the captains and lieutenants standing around, the strange mix of shock, anger, and despair on their faces creating feelings in me I didn't quite understand. But I was their leader now, and they needed me to say something, anything to fill the pained silence that was letting bad imaginations run wild.

"Alright everyone, eyes on me!" I called out, putting as much authority in my words as I could. The small crowd of pilots all turned towards me and waited for what would come next.

"We lost a lot today. I won't pretend to know what each of you might be going through right now, and I'd ask you to do the same for each other. We all have different situations, and we all left something unique in Gracemeria today. But believe me when I say this: no matter what you think happened today, no matter what you may be dreading, everyone we left in Gracemeria is still there and waiting for us to come back. I can't offer you any definitive proof that what I'm saying is true, but the instant any single one of you starts to believe that all is lost, or that you have nothing left to fight for, I guarantee you'll be right. And I don't know about you, but I got a lot of fight left in me, and I'm going to make damn sure those bastards get a taste of it! You all with me?"

The response to my question was quick, clear, and loud. The pilots crowded around me all raised a fist and cheered with a renewed vigor and savage spark in their eyes. Inwardly I breathed a sigh of relief because I was showing a bit more confidence than I was feeling, and hoped I could keep it up.

* * *

A few days later, when all the Gracemeria survivors were set up in an old hangar reconfigured into barracks, news started to trickle in through the emergency radio networks. It was mostly bad news but there were a few precious glimmers of hope.

Even though there was less than an hour between the response force takeoff and when the cruise missiles hit, we did enough damage to the initial invasion force of bombers, special forces helicopters, and paratroopers that local police were able to organize a massive evacuation that got a little over a third of the city's population out before the next wave arrived.

A few minutes after I heard that bit of news from one of the National Guard volunteers, I was walking around the makeshift barracks again trying to check up on the pilots who were hoping for more than just a percentage when my work phone started ringing. I almost forgot I had it, since most cellular networks in the country were gone and I knew nobody on Khesed Island before now.

I stopped by my cot and looked at the caller ID, wondering who had my work number AND access to cellular network. It was my personal cell number, which didn't make any sense because I left my personal phone back in Gracemeria with… Anna.

I mashed the "Answer" button so hard I nearly bent my thumb backwards and said, "Hello? Who is this?"

"Danny?" I heard Anna's voice and my knees nearly buckled. "Thank God you made it out.

"Yeah I'm okay. But what about you? Are you okay? Where are you? How did you-"

"Danny, shut up." Anna interrupted me, but I could hear her smiling with the same relief I was feeling. "I'm still in Gracemeria, and I'm fine."

"But I watched them bomb cell towers! How did you get-"

"Oh my god Danny, I love you so much right now but shut your mouth," Anna interrupted me again. "I'm about to explain everything, but I don't have as much time as I'd like."

I promptly stopped talking and sat down on my cot. After a couple seconds of silence Anna started her story.

"Turns out being born in Estovakia is a pretty good thing right about now," she said. "I had my birth certificate with me and when I showed it to a few of the soldiers, they took me straight to the officers in charge of the invasion and were acting like they rescued me or something. The officers bought it and set me up like some kind of freed prisoner. I have my own hotel room, my own government rental car, access to the temporary cell towers the military set up for officials' private use. I'm even supposed to have dinner with the top officers in a few nights."

"Am I allowed to talk yet?" I asked.

"Go for it."

"I'm overjoyed you're okay but are you crazy?" I asked. "Calling an Emmerian military phone from an Estovakian network using an Emmerian officer's personal phone? If they find out you'll be branded as a traitor! And the only people a military leader hates worse than his enemies are traitors!"

"Danny, relax. The generals here are more corrupt than you can imagine. They don't want anyone snooping around their personal affairs, and I'm close enough to them that I'm safe. But listen. I could help you. I could help the Emmerian war effort. You know firsthand I can sweet talk the military types like nobody's business, and I just know if I have enough time I can charm some good information out of these pompous, pretentious pricks."

"Anna, I love you and I love that you want to help us win this war, but this is too dangerous. I can't let you risk your life for my cause…"

Anna interrupted me again, but this time she was angry. "Do you seriously think this is just your cause?" she asked incredulously. "I know you love the accent but I'm every bit as Emmerian as you. Probably more because I had to take a damn citizenship test. Emmeria is my home too. And I'll be damned if I let the same generals that destroyed my first home to take this one too."

It took me a few seconds to process everything Anna just threw at me, but I knew two things: she was right, and there was no possibility of talking her out of this. "Okay. I'll pass all this on to our intelligence branch. They'll find a way to set you up with a secure line. Does anyone know you have my phone?"

"No. They think I only have mine."

"Okay, wait for the spooks from the intel branch to get some instructions to you. We probably won't be able to talk again for a long time, but I'm glad you're safe. Please be careful. When I kick the Estovakians out of Gracemeria you better be there."

"You know I will, Daniel. I love you."

"I love you too Anastasia."

There was a brief pause between when I said Anna's full name and when there was the telltale click of the line going dead.


	3. Counter-Attack

It took a few months to gather enough of our scattered and retreating forces on Khesed to counter attack while repelling the Estovakian's repeated invasion attempts of the island. And as much as I hate to admit it, Anna's intelligence was turning out to be the golden goose that got us to the point where we were ready to hit the mainland just a few months after arriving on Khesed Island. It was thanks to her that we got enough warning of a massive air raid heading for Vitoze to set up jammers along their flight path, which blinded the fighter escorts and made shooting down the bombers a turkey shoot in which my squadron effectively eliminated the B-52 from the Estovakian Air Force's inventory. It was thanks to Anna that we got word of massing Estovakian ground forces and were able surprise attack their staging area. They surrendered so quickly that we more than doubled our inventory of tanks, ammunition, and supplies with everything we captured from that battle. Unfortunately, despite these small but significant victories, the Emmerian Air Force was still down to about five percent of its combat air power, and even fewer qualified pilots.

I decided the solution was for everyone should know how to fly everything we had left, including me. In the months that followed our retreat to Khesed and between the battles to stave off total defeat, I had lieutenants who were fresh out of flight school teaching me to fly aircraft they learned how to fly only a few months prior, while I taught them how to not just fly a plane, but how to fight with it. It was a mad scramble getting roughly two dozen of us Gracemeria survivors plus the ten National Guard pilots proficient in multiple airframes, but we were fighting for survival and desperately wanted payback on the invaders that destroyed our homes in front of our eyes. Usually a class of pilots becomes proficient in a new airframe in about eight months, and every pilot mastered two new fighters in two months. In four months, all of us were able to fly a mock dogfight training mission, land and switch planes with the instructor, then take off and do it all over again. I was amazed with not only what I did, but what some of the younger pilots I was with were able to do.

The National Guard F-15E Strike Eagles were by far the hardest for most of us to get used to. They weren't fighters so much as they were supersonic bombers or interdictors meant mostly for long-range ground attack operations. That meant they were fast in a straight line, but also big, heavy, and sluggish in a turn. Not to mention a Weapon Systems Officer (WSO) in the back seat who actually drops all the bombs. Call me a control freak, but I do not like the idea of flying a fighter while someone else drops the bombs. Especially when that someone is Second Lieutenant Michelle Ruperton.

Don't get me wrong, she was an excellent WSO. In fact, during our training exercises she put the most bombs on target of WSO. However, this blonde-haired, blue-eyed, enthusiastic young Vitoze native was the worst backseat driver I've ever seen. And there is nothing a fighter pilot hates more in the world than a backseat driver. Flight docs are a close second.

It got to the point where every pilot I had under me came to the office I stole from an airport administrator and asked specifically to be paired with anyone but Lt Ruperton when it came time to go up in the Strike Eagles. And they had the worst timing, because it was right before the counter-invasion of mainland Anea, which would end up being the biggest air-interdiction mission of the war.

After kicking the last whiner out of my office, I sat back in the chair and sighed, rubbing my temples. After a minute I picked up the phone and called Lt Ruperton into my office. A few minutes later she knocked, entered, stood at attention in front of my somewhat disorganized desk, and snapped a crisp salute.

"Sir. Lieutenant Michelle Ruperton reporting as ordered."

I returned the salute and said, "At ease Lieutenant. Have a seat.

She sat down, looking at me anxiously.

"How long has it been since you got out of WSO training?" I asked.

"Just a couple months, sir," she replied. "I was only here a few weeks before they hit Gracemeria and you arrived."

"Alright…" I said thoughtfully. "You probably know why I called you in here."

She shook her head. "Actually sir, I have no idea."

"Take your best guess then."

"…To assign me a someone to fly with?" she asked. "I know I'm the only WSO not assigned to be someone's permanent back-seater yet."

"You're mostly right." I told her and leaned forward a bit. "Here's why you haven't been assigned to a pilot yet: Literally every pilot has been in this office, sat in the exact same seat you are, and asked to fly with anyone but you, knowing they were risking being grounded for insubordination."

Her face fell, and she looked down at her feet. I felt bad dumping bad news on her like that, but in a war like this I really couldn't afford to dance around anyone's feelings.

"It's not because of your skills." I continued. "In fact, I'd say that since your training is more recent than anyone else's, you're putting more bombs on target than any other WSO we have. The problem is your tendency to tell pilots how to fly the plane while you're putting bombs on target. The thing you have to know about fighter pilots, especially those like me who fly single-seaters, is that we really don't like being told how to do our job."

"Sir, may I speak freely?" She asked.

"Go for it."

She took a breath, then said somewhat anxiously, "I was taught that putting bombs on target is the mission, and the mission is the priority. Everything after that is secondary, including the pilot's ego. All I ever try to do is get the mission done as best as I can."

I'll admit I was a little surprised. It wasn't every day someone had the guts to call out fighter pilots for our admittedly healthy egos, especially right to the face of a squadron commander. I took a breath and replied sternly, "That's a gutsy statement, Lieutenant. But this isn't flight school, it's real war. Those pilots and their 'egos' will be what keeps you alive when the targets start shooting back. You're not always going to get the perfect position for dropping a weapon, but when that is a 2000-pound bomb there is such a thing as close enough."

"Sir, if it means putting warheads right on top of Estovakian foreheads, I will gladly take a bullet for the cause."

That was the statement that sealed her fate. With a hard steel edge in my voice I said, "That's all fine and dandy Lieutenant, but Emmeria has enough dead heroes. Dramatic last stands make good movies, but they don't win wars. Quite the opposite in fact, and I intend to win this war. How about you? Do you want to win this war or die a in a falling, burning, thousand-pound mass of metal, fiberglass, and jet fuel?"

I may have raised my voice a little bit during my spiel, because I could see Ruperton gradually shrink into her chair as I spoke. She squeaked out a meek "Yes Sir."

"Yes what? Yes you want to win, or yes you want to die?"

Even quieter, she said, "Win, Sir."

"Good to hear. Because the Army is landing on mainland Anea tomorrow morning. Covering the landing force is going to be the biggest ground-attack mission yet, possibly of the entire war. We need all hands on deck for this op, so I'm taking one for the team here. You're flying with me tomorrow."

Ruperton had to think about what I told her for a moment and she said, "Sir?"

"You heard me, Lieutenant. Since every other pilot would rather spend the rest of the war behind a desk than fly with you, that leaves me. Briefing starts at 0400, don't be late."

"I…" she said and then looked as if she was considering her next words very carefully. "Thank you, Sir. I won't let you down."

"I know you won't. Just remember who's flying the jet, capiche?"

* * *

My Strike Eagle was the last plane to land at Campagna Airport after the last of the landing units were ashore. After parking the plane, I hit the canopy release and felt the cool humid air of a winter day at the beach flood the cockpit. There was also a slight hint of smoke and burning jet fuel from the wrecks of a few Estovakian C-17's on the other end of the parking ramp, but since I was the one that bombed them even that was oddly satisfying. Well, technically my back seater bombed them. I just flew the jet. See why I hate having someone else in the plane?

I climbed out and stood next to my plane, surveying the several piles of smoking twisted metal that used to be Estovakian SAM batteries, anti-air guns, and APC's with a content smile. When Ruperton hopped out and stood next to me, I turned to her and stuck out my hand, still smiling.

"Not bad for a day's work, especially considering we're wrapping up before lunchtime," I said as she took my hand and shook it. "Welcome to mainland Emmeria by the way. Thanks to you, we don't have to call it Mainland Estovakia."

When I said that she beamed with pride, and gave me an enthusiastic "Thank you, Major!" Considering how hard I was on her yesterday, a compliment from me must felt like winning the lottery to young Second Lieutenant Ruperton. But hey, she earned it. True to her word she toned down her micromanaging of my flying and still racked up an impressive kill count.

As soon as I released her hand I heard a vehicle of some kind tearing down the tarmac towards me. My hand instinctively reached for the sidearm hanging from a shoulder holster, and I saw Ruperton do the same. When the small pickup got closer and I saw who was in it, I relaxed.

"That's just Mike, our resident intelligence spook." I told her. He didn't tell anyone his last name, and I had my doubts as to if his first name was really Mike, but any and all information from Anna came through him, so I got to know him very well over the past few months.

He screeched to a halt just a few feet from where I was standing and rolled down the window. "Major G, you're going to want to hear this!" he said with some urgency in his voice.

I took off my helmet and approached his pickup, and I noticed a few bullet holes in the body of the truck once I was closer. I ignored them. "What's the word, Mike?" I asked.

"We captured a guy with some very valuable intel while storming the airport, and the weasel was very willing to share once I got creative with him."

"Say no more." I said, hoping never to know exactly what Mike did to the poor bastard. "What did he cough up?"

"The situation further inland is worse than we thought. MUCH worse," he said. "What's left of the Army is dug in near the town of Silvat, but they're outnumbered, surrounded, and barely hanging on. The Estovakian brass is estimating they're only about 48 hours away from surrendering, and if they don't surrender, it will take only another week to wipe them out completely."

Even though Mike didn't say it, we both knew that not a single Emmerian soldier in Silvat would surrender so long as there was breath in his body and bullets in his rifle. The satisfaction I felt from the morning's successful landing melted away in an instant, only to be replaced with a grim determination to get back in the fight, rain even more hell on the Estovakians, and get those soldiers the rescue they needed. It was a feeling I knew every pilot would share.

"Get the news to the maintenance squadron!" I barked. "I want every jet we have refueled, rearmed, and ready for takeoff, ASAP!" Mike gave a hasty salute, gunned the engine, and sped off without another word.

I turned to Ruperton and said, "You wanted to be hero, didn't you Lieutenant?"

She said nothing and just looked back at me with the same grim determination in her eyes.

I put my helmet back on and said, "Well this is your chance. Hop back in."


End file.
